


a push in the right direction

by blobfish_miffy



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Band, Didn't Know They Were Dating, Diners, Everyone Is Gay, First Kiss, Gen, Happy Ending, Ice Cream, M/M, Male Friendship, Mutual Pining, Oblivious George, Pining, background mclennon, lennstarr bromance, lowkey mcharrison bromance, oblivious everyone (except to each others relationships for some reason), oblivious ringo, or - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 15:21:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30023796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blobfish_miffy/pseuds/blobfish_miffy
Summary: or, ice cream, milkshakes, and john lennon being an annoying git for 6000 words bi“He’s-” Ringo splutters, and his tongue suddenly feels a bit too big for his mouth.Georgeis, apparently, without his knowledge, hisboyfriend.And that’s ridiculous, ‘cause he’sGeorge,and there’s no wayGeorgewould datehim.“He’s-”“Your boyfriend,” John supplies unhelpfully.“Not,”he spits out. He feels his cheeks burning, heart running a marathon and stomach doing backflips. “Not my boyfriend.”John stares at him. Just stares at him in complete silence for five long, torturous seconds, before a smile breaks out on his face and he chuckles. “You are pullin’ my leg, aren’t you? Good one, that.”***Ringo and George are not dating. They'renot.John (and also Paul) think otherwise.There are realisations.
Relationships: George Harrison/Ringo Starr, John Lennon & Ringo Starr
Comments: 20
Kudos: 38





	a push in the right direction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rufusrant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufusrant/gifts).



> For Remy!  
> I hope this'll make you smile :)

It’s a nice, calm, slow Thursday evening, and the diner is near-empty. 

Which is rare, really, because the diner is _popular._ The only American-style diner for _miles,_ serving perfect, greasy, American-inspired food and drinks. John and Ringo discovered it sometime during uni at 11 at night, hungry and study-weary, and might as well have never left. Visiting the diner on Thursdays has become a tradition of sorts. 

The prices are a little high for your average uni student, but it’s worth it. He gets to see John - as annoying as he is - and he gets to indulge himself with those gigantic burgers and monstrous servings of chips. The best thing is that he also gets to drink that starfruit milkshake they serve here which he _totally_ doesn’t get _just_ for the name, John, fuck off and die in a hole, it’s tasty as fuck. 

Ringo picks at his leftover chips while John, of course, has taken it upon himself to share his observations of the week like he does every Thursday. As he eats, he listens, nods, and intercepts where he can. For someone who can’t fuckin’ see, John’s pretty observant; most he says and predicts is largely correct or will turn out to be largely correct, and Ringo is always up for a bit of gossip. It’s when the conversation derails, though, and John starts sharing observations that hit a _bit_ too close to home, that Ringo gets a little agitated. 

“You’re _wrong,”_ he says when John leans forward with a smug little smile and eye-twinkles behind his Ray-Bans. It’s become so predictable at this point it’s not even funny anymore, just _annoying_ , because John does this _every_ Thursday at six pm on the fucking _dot._

John slumps back against the backrest of the booth, pouting. “You haven’t even _listened_ yet.” 

“I don’t need to.” Ringo waves a hand through the air, slurping obnoxiously from his starfruit milkshake. Because _fuck you,_ John, it really _is_ tasty. “It’s about our closest friends. Or, rather, _your_ closest friends, and that includes _me.”_

His best mate pokes at his cold, leftover chips. He’s so obviously disheartened that Ringo would feel bad, had he not known John so well. And he _does_ know John well. Too well, probably. “Arse. You’re ruining my _fun.”_

“Am I?” 

_“Yes,”_ John says, all _hurt_ and _annoying._ Ringo bites back a sigh. “I can’t believe you don’t want to hear my astute, quite frankly _adorable_ observations about you and your boyfriend.” 

_That_ is new. 

_“What?”_ his straw drops from his mouth, all sad and gross, like. “What boyfriend?” 

John looks at him funnily. “Look, mate, I know that, y’know, you’d want to keep this private for a while, but you’re a really bad liar. It’s not like you two could keep this a secret from Paul and me.” 

_“Two?”_ his brain is hurting. Which either means, you know, him giving himself a brain-freeze because he’s drinking his milkshake too quickly, or him giving himself a headache because he’s forcing himself to process this ridiculous information. “Two? There’s another one?”

“That’s usually what “you and your boyfriend” _means,_ isn’t it? Two people?” John’s started smiling again, and Ringo hates him instantly for being able to be amused about his pain. Which is a _joke,_ of course, because Ringo could never hate John. 

_“Who_ is the other one?” 

John does that funny little thing with those caterpillars he calls eyebrows, that thing he does when he’s confused. They bounce around in place for a couple of seconds before pulling together into a small frown. “You havin’ me on?” 

_“No?”_ and it’s a question, because he’s genuinely confused. “I’m not, I swear-”

John pauses, giving him that funny look again, and frowns a little deeper. He’s still smiling, though. “George? The other one’s George. You know, your _boyfriend?”_

 _“George?”_ and if one would ask, Ringo didn’t squeak. Because he may be small, but he ain’t a _mouse,_ okay? _“George_ is my _boyfriend_?” 

John’s frown disappears, but the caterpillars don’t stop doing all kinds of things. They climb up now, instead of trying to hug. How exciting. “Yes?”

“He’s-” Ringo splutters, and his tongue suddenly feels a bit too big for his mouth. _George_ is, apparently, without his knowledge, his _boyfriend._ And that’s ridiculous, ‘cause he’s _George,_ and there’s no way _George_ would date _him._ “He’s-”

“Your boyfriend,” John supplies unhelpfully. 

_“Not,”_ he spits out. He feels his cheeks burning, heart running a marathon and stomach doing backflips. “Not my boyfriend.” 

John stares at him. Just stares at him in complete silence for five long, torturous seconds, before a smile breaks out on his face and he chuckles. “You _are_ pullin’ my leg, aren’t you? Good one, that.”

“I’m _not,”_ Ringo says, “cross my heart. I’m not joking around, John.” 

“If you’re not kidding, then you’re just doing a very bad attempt at trying to make me believe you and George aren’t dating.” John looks amused again, and smug, all _“I got ya there, didn’t I?”_ but he doesn’t have Ringo there, ‘cos he’s wrong. “I’ve done all kinds of observations.” 

Ringo is quiet, still attempting to compute, because this whole thing doesn’t make _any_ sense.

“You, like, _cuddle_ ‘n stuff,” John waves his hand through the air, all elegant and arseholish, before he snaps his fingers and signals their waitress, Maggie, closer. “Live together, cook together, go out on _dates._ It’s disgustingly cute, really. There’s no way you two aren’t, like, _engaged_ already. Or dating, at the very least.”

He places his hands on his cheeks, nearly flinching at the heat radiating off them. He must be _so_ fucking red. “George and I are just very good _friends,”_ he says as John orders a slice of lemon meringue for the both of them. “Super-friendly flatmates who are super-friends. Get your head out of the gutter.”

John grins at him, all wild and a bit mad like it always is when he’s absurdly pleased. “Sure,” he tells him, picking the last of his chips from his plate and stuffing it into his mouth. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“I will,” Ringo snaps, “because it’s the truth.”

John just rolls his eyes and smiles. 

They sit in silence for a while. It would’ve been awkward had they not been so comfortable with one another, and Ringo slurps up the last of his milkshake as John plays around with his phone. He’s texting, quietly giggling to himself as his thumbs fly over the keyboard, and Ringo leans forward.

“‘s that Paul?”

“Yeah,” John says, still smiling at his iPhone. “He’s complaining that _Georgie’s_ complaining about you leaving your dirty dishes in the sink.”

“I was gonna clean it up when I got home,” Ringo mutters. The waitress comes round, drops off two small dessert plates with a hefty slice of pie on each, and two cups of coffee. She winks when John opens his mouth to protest, tells them it’s on the house. 

Ringo drags his plate closer, sticks his fork in the tip of pie, and shovels the bite into his mouth. Tart and sweet, just how he loves it. “That’s nice.”

“It is,” John agrees, and he takes a bite of his own. “Very.” And though he usually pushes another bite in his still-full mouth, he pauses this time. “So, you and George really aren’t dating?”

Ringo swallows and narrows his eyes, ignores his blush, because two can play this game. “Are you and Paul?”

John splutters, laughs, and stuffs his mouth full of pie in lieu of an answer. It’s a no, then. But judging by how insecure John looks as he grabs his coffee and takes a huge sip, it may as well become a yes. 

He’ll focus on that instead.

~*~

“How was dinner?” asks George as soon as Ringo’s made his way through the door. He’s sitting on the sofa, beer in hand and watching some nature documentary on the telly, and there’s an empty bottle on the coffee table. “Had fun?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he answers. He makes his way into the open kitchen, takes a beer of his own out of the fridge. “John was annoying, as always, but it was fun anyway. I’m all up-to-date on the gossip. How was your evening with Macca?”

“Fun,” George twists around on the sofa, grins widely at him over the back of it. “We made pasta from scratch-” like they don’t do that every week, “and it was a bit too much, I suppose. Half the leftovers are in the fridge, Paul took the other half home. We also watched _The Lion King.”_

“Sounds great,” Ringo tells him, and George’s grin grows a whole lot wider before he’s excitedly patting the space next to him, telling him to come sit. When he does, George starts to talk, and talk, and _talk_ , becoming more and more animated the deeper he gets into his Paul-is-an-idiot-story of the day. Ringo watches with a warm feeling in his chest he recognises as pure fondness, but when George places his hand on his arm his entire body tenses up. The touch nearly burns. 

“Paul told me he and John still aren’t together,” George says, and he looks put out about it. “Well, he didn’t say _still,_ he said _“we aren’t together, git”,_ but he sounded _sad_ about it, so I hope you told John to make his intentions clearer, ‘cos this is getting pathetic.”

“I didn’t,” Ringo tells him honestly, and he takes a sip of his beer in the hopes it’ll soften the blow of seeing the disappointed expression on George’s pretty face. It doesn’t, not really, but he likes to pretend it does. “But I did ask him if they _were_ dating, and he didn’t say no.”

George hums, thoughtful, before he twists again and leans his full weight against Ringo. The tips of his fingers dust over Ringo’s jean-covered knee; it tickles but he doesn’t jerk away because he likes touching George, and it’s Thursday evening so he can indulge himself a bit. 

_Just a bit,_ he reminds himself when George looks at him with a small smile, all handsome and soft, and tells him: “We can work with that.”

Yes, he’ll focus on _that_ instead. Not on the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach.

~*~

Richard Starkey is, very decidedly, _not_ in love with George Harrison. 

He’s _not._

There’s a big, godfucking difference between having a healthy, platonic admiration and being in love. He _admires_ George, okay? Admires his kindness, admires his fierce loyalty, admires his affinity for music and the way he can write like no other. He admires George’s long, slender fingers, admires the espresso-colour of his eyes, admires the sharp cut of his features and the cheeky crookedness of his smile. Ringo _admires,_ platonically, from a farther distance than one in love would, and he’s completely and utterly convinced by that. 

John isn’t obviously, but he’s _John_ and he’s a _dick_ and a sucker for all things romance, so of course John will detect every insignificant homoerotic detail in George and Ringo’s relationship. He’s a _dick,_ after all, one who watches too many rom-coms. 

_“I don’t watch too many rom-coms,”_ John says in his ear, sounding only slightly offended. It sounds like he’s smiling, though, so Ringo reckons it’s alright. _“I’ll have you know I watch a perfectly decent number of rom-coms, fuckface.”_

 _“You’re_ the fuckface,” Ringo replies. They’re calling today, because John was too lazy to drag his arse out of bed and pay his best friend a visit. George is out and about with Paul, Mike, and Peter: that means that Ringo can finally talk as loud as he wants, without being afraid George will overhear something out of context that might threaten their friendship. And he _might,_ because John’s a fuckface- “and a dick.” 

_“No, you,”_ John deadpans, before he sends himself into peals of laughter at his own joke. It’s not funny, not really, even if it _is_ a little bit, so Ringo doesn’t smile. 

Or maybe he does. 

Just a little bit. 

_“It’s just that- come on, mate, the best kind of relationships are built upon good friendships.”_ He hears John shift - probably getting more comfortable in bed, the dick - and then settle. _“You know, just a steady, good kinda love. None of that falling into gut-punching love shite. Just comfortable, familiar, bit of butterflies kinda love.”_

Ringo hums, decides to shove the “comfortable, bit of butterflies-love” into the back of his mind, and wipes the kitchen counter free of dirt with his palm before taking out a mug. He wants coffee. He also really doesn’t want to think about how that feeling perfectly describes his feelings about George, because that’s _silly._ “Like you and Paul, then?”

John barks out a laugh, manic and stupid and a bit panicked, perhaps, before he says: _“No.”_

“Sure,” he’s chuckling now. Teasing John is one of his favourite pastimes _._ _“Sure._ Because while you were observing me and George and our _relationship_ details, you two do the _exact_ same thing-”

 _“We weren’t- this isn’t- no, **no,”** _John splutters, and it pleases Ringo to no end that he’s managed to render the great John Lennon flustered. _“We’re not discussing Paul and me. We’re- we’re discussing **you** and **George** and the obvious fact that you’re **dating.** I still believe you two are just **lying,** by the way, ‘cos there’s **no** way you two aren’t in a very gay relationship with each other.”_

“Pot,” Ringo says, shoving the mug under the machine, dropping the capsule in, and pressing the button. It’s hard being a barista. “Kettle.”

 _“Fuck **off.”** _John doesn’t laugh anymore, but Ringo can _hear_ him blushing. _“Did you and George wake up in one bed this morning, or not?”_

“We didn’t,” Ringo answers. They _didn’t,_ truly, they’d just fallen asleep on each other on the sofa and woke up cuddling. Which is _platonic,_ because they’re _platonic_ buddies. Besties. Mates. “I’m not lying about that.”

_“Ahhh, but you say **that.** Which means that you’re lying about other things-”_

Ringo groans. Loudly. He doesn’t care that the thought of dating George sends his emotions to go haywire, and he doesn’t care that he doesn’t mind that. He _does_ care, however, that John doesn’t believe him. “I’m really not.”

There’s a beat of silence before John speaks up again. His voice is softer this time, calmer, perhaps a bit resigned. _“You two are really not dating?”_

The coffee machine beeps and Ringo drags his cup out from under the spout. “We’re not.”

 _“Oh,”_ is all that John says, and he falls silent again. Ringo’s not sure whether he’s genuinely upset John this time, or whether John’s just thinking of ways to get revenge. Knowing John, he’s upset him and now John’s wondering whether he should jab him where it might hurt. Because John’s a dick. A sensitive dick, but a dick nonetheless. _“So, you wouldn’t mind it if Klaus - you know, Astrid’s ex - asked him out? He’s been pestering me about it for ages.”_

Ringo swallows drily and eyes his hot coffee with interest. “I wouldn’t.”

 _“Okay,”_ says John, _“because I don’t want to comfort you if George accepts.”_

Something in his belly curdles, and Ringo nearly drops his phone. He doesn’t, of course, because it’s silly that the thought of George dating someone upsets him so much. “Hm.” 

_“You can tell me if that bothers you,”_ John’s voice is soft again, gentle. Like Ringo might break if handled carelessly. _“You know that, right?”_

“I know,” Ringo replies, “I know that. And it doesn’t bother me, really. Not at all.” 

The lie tastes so bitter he winces, and if John has noticed the weird noise of his phone’s mic rubbing against the cotton of his t-shirt, he keeps quiet. 

Other topics, then. 

~*~

Klaus asks George out on a Tuesday a couple of weeks after John’s _Klaus-likes-George_ confession. He hadn’t texted or called earlier, but they just so _happen_ to run into each other at the local Tesco when George informs their group chat he’ll do the shopping for their next dinner together there. Ringo knows of the question because George told him as soon as he got home, unpacking vegetables and fruit and throwing a pack of jellybeans in Ringo’s poor face. 

“He’s fit, of course,” George babbles as he empties out the carrier bag. For that in-constant-control-thing he claims to have mastered, the unpacking process sure isn’t methodical: the crisps - puffed, sea salt, because they both prefer it - get shoved in the cupboard with a distinct lack of care. “Like, really fit. Great face, great mouth, great personality. And I’m flattered, you know, really flattered that he’d like to take me out for a drink.” 

Ringo’s stomach twists itself around his heart in one cramped move, and he needs to sit down in order not to wince. “Well?” 

“Well, what?” George turns, pack of peanuts dangling from his long fingers. 

“You know,” Ringo sighs. But George doesn’t, apparently, just wiggles his eyebrows at him in confusion. “Did you accept?” 

“As a platonic meet-up, yeah,” with a beautiful amount of grace, George chucks the peanuts into the cupboard. They fall out immediately. “So _yes,_ I did say yes, but not romantically? It’s not a _date,_ anyway, and I’m pretty sure I made that clear.” 

In a span of ten seconds, George has managed to make Ringo’s heart both drop to the bottom of his shoes, and flutter with hope. Why hope? Because he’s pathetic, that’s why. He hides his sigh of relief with an awkward cough. “Okay. Bit of a pity, though.” 

George swivels around. He’s got a broccoli in his hands this time, like some weird, kind of gross wedding bouquet. Unless you’re Paul, who _loves_ broccoli, in which case it’s a weird, _tasty_ wedding bouquet. Then again, Paul’s kind of an odd duck. “How come?” 

Ringo’s heart stutters at the intensity with which George says it. “Because… he’s fit? And nice? And you haven’t dated anyone in ages, you know, maybe it’d be tons of fun?” 

“I’m not interested in him like that,” George says, and he’s relaxed again. He casually puts the broccoli in the vegetable drawer of their fridge, shuts the door, and turns around. “And I don’t think I will be.” 

If Ringo didn’t know better, George’s intense stare and furrowed eyebrows might have suggested something meaningful there. But he does know better, and he knows this is just George being George: adorably intense in moments when it matters, hiding secrets behind those espresso eyes of his. 

The hope’s still there when George takes two leeks out of the bag and throws one at Ringo before pointing his own at him and yelling _“engarde!”_

 _At least,_ he thinks, giggling as they proceed to have a gentle fencing session, _we’ve got this._

~*~

It’s eleven in the evening. They’re on their second movie of the night, their dinner has been cooked and eaten, their dishes have been washed and put away, and Ringo is four beers in when George curls his finger around a lock of hair in the nape of Ringo’s neck and says: “You’ve got amazingly pretty eyes.”

Ringo chokes a little bit, inhales aggressively through his nose to stop the upcoming coughing fit, and swallows. _“Huh?”_

“Your eyes,” George repeats, a tiny, fond smile appearing where his ever-present scowl is supposed to be. “They’re really pretty. Bright, pure blue. Beautiful.”

The words don’t particularly help Ringo to _not_ choke on his next sip, so he just holds the bottle in his lap as he gives George a surprised stare. The butterflies in his stomach are being _really_ active tonight, were busy when George happily bumped his hip against Ringo’s when they were cooking tea, were busy when George teasingly splashed foam in his face when they were doing the dishes, were busy when George sat down next to him an hour ago, after he’d had his piss break, so close that they were touching head-to-toe despite the large amount of free space on his other side. 

His head is swimming. “Thank you.”

The smile grows a bit wider. George stops twirling hair around his finger, rests his entire hand casually against the back of Ringo’s neck, and rests his head on Ringo’s shoulder. “It’s just the truth.”

“Hm.”

“Any- any bird,” George says, and he swallows audibly, “would be lucky to have you staring at them, you know.”

Ringo sneaks his arm around George’s bony back, rests his wrist on George’s shoulder, allows his hand to dangle. He suppresses the urge to say _“no”,_ because _“no, I don’t want to look at a girl”,_ because, perhaps, _“I want to look at **you,** George”, _but that’s ridiculous, and he can’t say it, so he doesn’t. He says “Oh, that’s nice,” instead and tries to remind himself that George is just being George, kind and friendly, his best friend who would support him through anything and would agree to be Ringo’s best man even if he married George’s worst enemy, and would even offer to plan the entire wedding and pay for half. Because that’s just George. 

There’s a beat of silence.

“You’re supposed to say it back, you know,” George then mutters, and Ringo cracks a smile, says “your eyes are a really beautiful blue, George”, and laughs maniacally when George punches his stomach fondly and tells him to stop being such an arse or he’ll get tickled to an early death. 

“Okay, okay,” he giggles when George threateningly hovers his long fingers over Ringo’s sides, _“okay,_ fine. Your eyes are… very dark.”

The fingers come closer. Ringo squirms uncomfortably, but he’s smiling because George is nearly in his _lap_ and that’s _awesome_ for some reason, even though it shouldn’t be. Because… _because._ “That’s just an _observation,_ Starkey, not even a _compliment-”_

“They look like cups of espresso,” Ringo blurts, and George stares at him with a smile. “Like, all dark, and warm, and they’re unreadable sometimes and I re- I bet people _really_ like that because it makes you all mysterious, and they’re really pretty.”

“My eyes,” George says, grinning now, “look like coffee, and that’s why they’re pretty. Because they- because they look like _coffee.”_

Ringo swallows. “Yes?”

George throws his head back with a laugh and runs the hand previously on the back of Ringo’s neck through Ringo’s hair. When he lolls his head forwards again and gives Ringo a cheeky grin, he pets his cheek, says “thank you”, and then settles again to watch the movie. He doesn’t seem to care that they’ve missed a large part of it, just hums happily and strokes the back of Ringo’s neck. 

Ringo doesn’t care that he’s missed a large part from the movie either. In fact, he doesn’t really care that he’ll miss the entire movie, because all he can focus on are George’s fingers in his neck, the warmth of his body against his, and the butterflies raging in his stomach. 

~*~

“I’ve got a crush on George.” 

“Congratulations on figuring that one out,” John replies, diner menu obscuring his entire face. “Should I get a burger or chicken fingers?” 

“I’ve got a crush,” Ringo repeats, “on _George._ I’ve actually got a crush on George.” 

“I think I’ll just get a burger, like always… but the chicken fingers sound good.” John taps his fingers on the sticky tabletop, sounding a bit unsure. “If I get chicken fingers… can we share? Like, we’ll have less chips and eat the chicken fingers instead? I won’t feel as guilty for ordering that, then. And we can still get pie without being too full to eat it.” 

Ringo stares at John. “I can’t believe you’re not more enthusiastic about this.” 

“What, my chicken fingers?” and he throws his head back with a cackle at Ringo’s blank stare. “What’s there to be enthusiastic about? I knew that already, you know.” 

“You- you _knew?”_ he splutters. John raises one caterpillar, shooting him an unimpressed look. “How did you- _what?”_

“Ritchie,” John sighs, as if exhausted by his antics. He puts the menu down on the table with a patient smile. “I thought you two were _dating._ If I didn’t know you’re, like, in love with George, why the _fuck_ would I think you were shagging regularly?” 

“We’re not _shagging regularly-”_

“Yes, sadly you’re not, which I know now,” John says, “and that makes this whole situation even more pathetic.” 

Ringo is quiet, just staring at his best mate as he tries to figure out what makes this whole situation so pathetic. It’s not like he’s _pining,_ even if he is a little bit, and the fact that George and him have got a pretty comfortable, pleasant friendship going on doesn’t mean that they’re pathetic in any way. If anything, that weird, co-dependent, sexual-tension filled relationship John and Paul have got going on is _more_ pathetic. 

“It’s not _pathetic-”_ he says then, before getting interrupted by their waitress - Maggie, again - who asks them what they want to order. 

“Okay, so, the regular, but a lot less chips each and some chicken fingers instead,” John says, handing the menus to her with a smile. “Is that okay?”

She smiles back, writes something down on her notepad. “Chocolate milkshake and starfruit milkshake for you two each, still?”

“Can I have a banana one this time?”

“Of course. Two burgers, one small serving of chips, one large serving of chicken fingers, a banana milkshake, and a starfruit milkshake.” She’s still smiling, winks at them both. “I’ll bring your orders as soon as they’re ready. Have fun discussing your love lives, boys, I’m glad one of you had a revelation.”

As she walks off, John pulls a contemplative face. “Surely we’re not _that_ obvious?”

“You’re _loud,”_ Ringo scowls, poking the saltshaker with much vigour. “And I’m not _pathetic._ You are.”

“I’m-” John sucks in a breath, narrows his eyes. “Excuse me? I’m not- I’m not _in love_ with _Paul_ and I’m _certainly_ not pathetically pining after him-”

“I never said that,” Ringo replies smugly. _“You_ just did, on the other hand.”

“You were _implying_ it,” John hisses. He scowls, leans against the booth’s backrest, and thumps his head against the faux-leather. _“Besides,_ we were talking about _your_ pathetic crush. Which you totally should do something about.”

“I shouldn’t,” Ringo replies, “because George doesn’t like me like that.”

John allows his caterpillars to climb high, purses his lips. “Uhuh. Sure. Did you know my middle name is Kennedy?”

“I-” Ringo blinks, narrows his eyes. He doesn’t trust this. “I thought it was Winston?”

With a casual, infuriatingly smug laugh, John waves a limp hand through the air. _“Oh,_ sorry, I thought we were telling lies.”

 _“No,_ papa,” he mutters, and then John kicks him under the table, and he kicks back, and John kicks him _again_ and he’s suddenly wondering what he’s gonna tell George when he asks about his blue shins, because George always cares about insignificant stuff like that, and _oh._

Maggie arrives with their milkshakes. John stops kicking to accept them and smile cheekily at her, and then stuffs the paper straw into his mouth and sucks. The face he pulls as soon as the taste hits his tongue is a perfect representation of anguish, because John doesn’t like banana milkshakes at _all_ because he’s _stupid_ because, apart from starfruit milkshakes, banana is the best flavour you can get, and Ringo smiles. 

“You totally ordered that so you can practice your _“I **do** enjoy it, Paulie” _face when you end up sharing.”

“Shut _up,”_ John mutters, and he slurps down another mouthful before kicking Ringo again. _“You’re_ the one thinking about how to prevent George from freaking out about your bruised shins. At least _yours_ is caring.”

Ringo doesn’t ask what the _“yours”_ means, because he already knows what John means by that. He also knows that John’s unwittingly implied that Paul is something more to him than a best friend, and for once in his life he doesn’t feel the need to bully John about it. John’s trying to get used to the taste of a banana milkshake to not let Paul down, much like Ringo’s been giving the okay to ordering Indian food despite him not liking it, and he doesn’t know why he’s making the comparison but he thinks it’s _sweet_ and it shows they both care about their respective crushes. 

Huh. Perhaps he _should_ do something about the butterflies. The mere thought gives him crippling anxiety, though, and he slurps at his milkshake to calm himself down.

Maybe later, then, but it’ll happen.

~*~

“John and Paul think we’re dating.” 

It’s a Monday today, a Monday evening after tea and at the start of dessert. George is scooping their ice-cream - or _was,_ as he froze as soon as the words slipped out of Ringo’s mouth - and he looks so tense it makes Ringo’s heart hurt a little bit. “They-” George sighs, “they do.”

“You knew?” 

George moves again, finally, and he scoops a particularly big amount of ice cream out of the tub and plops it into one of the two bowls. He doesn’t turn around to look at Ringo. “It’s kind of hard not to,” he admits, and there’s not really any emotion detectable in his voice. “It’s all Paul can talk about. You know, if he isn’t babbling about John.” 

“I suppose that’s- _yeah,_ yeah, that’s my experience too,” he replies, and suddenly the tension in George’s body disappears. “John has, like, three topics he talks about. Gossip, our so-called gay relationship, and Paul.” 

George glances over his shoulder. He’s smiling, actually, with his mouth _and_ with his eyes, which is a bigger relief than Ringo is willing to admit. “They won’t stop talking about each other.” 

“I _know,”_ Ringo says, and he grins back. “It’s so obvious, isn’t it? And whenever you bring it up they end up avoiding the topic, which really doesn’t make it any less suspicious.” 

“I bring up John and Macca flushes so badly I’m pretty sure it’s travelling down to his navel,” George snickers. He puts the ice cream scoop in the sink and picks up the two ceramic bowls, turns around, hands the one with extra strawberry to Ringo. “He’s always going on and on- _“oh, Haz, John would **loooove** this,” _like he can’t think of anything else.” 

“Have you seen them cuddle during movie nights? Christ, if they’d sit any closer they’d get fused together, or something.” 

“They both stare at one another when they think the other isn’t looking and they’ve got these _dumb_ smiles reserved _just_ for moments like those.” 

“John has been ordering banana milkshakes despite hating the taste, so he gets used to them and Paul won’t be disappointed when he wants to share.”

George is still smiling, and if he had any alcohol in him, Ringo’s sure he’d be squealing. But he’s completely sober, so he just wiggles his socked toes excitedly as soon as he sits down on the sofa. “That’s _adorable.”_

“Right?” Ringo sits down next to him without realising how close they’ll end up, and suddenly they’re touching from shoulder-to-ankle again. It’s not as shocking, this time, just nice and warm. “What do you want to watch?”

“I think they’re doing reruns of _Love Actually_ again,” George shovels a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth. “But we haven’t finished _Brooklyn 99_ yet, either, so maybe that’s better.”

Ringo doesn’t reply, already taking out his phone and swiping for the Netflix app. He _really_ doesn’t like _Love Actually,_ has only sat through watches and re-watches and re-re-watches because George thinks it’s so tacky it’s hilarious and _good,_ and since George has offered a way out of watching _that_ monstrosity… well. 

_“Are_ we dating?” George asks as Netflix’ start screen appears on their television. “Like… we’re _not,_ right?”

“We’re not,” Ringo assures, swiping through the app in search of the series. “We can’t, can we? It’s a bit ridiculous. John’s blind anyway, and Paul’s blinded by John’s arse.”

George barks out a laugh. _“True._ You’re right. We’re not dating. Of course.” And he’s quiet as the episode starts playing, eats another bite of ice cream. Then: “I’m missing something.” 

“Huh?”

“I’m missing something,” George repeats. Ringo turns his head to look at him and sees he’s frowning a little, even though watching _B99_ usually brings him great joy. “You?”

He grabs his own bowl, digs into the scoops, takes a bite. It’s delicious and creamy, but- “Me too, yeah.” A pause. “Your chocolate stuff is in the cupboard.”

George nods. “Your strawberry stuff is in the fridge.”

Ringo nods back. They keep nodding for about ten more seconds before Ringo snorts and puts his bowl down on the table. “I’ll get it.”

He grabs the strawberry jam and the chocolate syrup, walks back, and puts the correct amount of chocolate syrup on Geo’s ice-cream before putting a dollop strawberry jam on his own. George thanks him, smiling, and proceeds to furiously mix the two elements together; Ringo, who is _much_ more cultured than George, _fuck you John,_ merely spreads the jam on top of his ice cream until it’s a pink layer of beauty. He waits until George is finished before he takes his first bite, then offers his next to George. George does the same thing, holding the spoonful of stretchy greyish-brown ice cream out for Ringo to eat.

It’s George who curses before Ringo can wrap his lips around the small spoon, and it’s Ringo who nearly drops his spoon on their sofa. “Oh, God - fucking - _hell-”_

“What?”

George is just staring at him, bottom lip caught between his white teeth, unreadable look in his dark eyes. “We _are_ dating, aren’t we?”

Ringo blinks at him. 

“We’re- we’re doing the exact same things like John and Paul, the stuff we were laughing about just now. We- we _cuddle,_ and I stare at you all the time, and every time I see something I think about how _you_ would love or hate it, and- and-”

“I eat Indian food for you,” Ringo offers quietly.

“You _do!”_ George groans, sticks his spoon back into his ice cream, and covers his eyes with his lower arm. “Are we _stupid?”_

He rumbles out a laugh and George takes a peek at him from behind his sleeve, all dark eyes and long lashes. He smiles, and his heart swells, and the butterflies are flying again. “We are.”

“We _are,”_ George agrees, and now he’s smiling too. “Because- because I can’t really imagine dating anyone but you, I think, and I can’t believe that took me so long.”

“I was so scared you were going to say yes to a _romantic_ date with Klaus I nearly threw up,” Ringo confesses. “Because I heard from John, who didn’t give Klaus the green light until he heard I was fine with it, which he _did_ because I said I was even though I wasn’t, and then I felt so sick with nerves those weeks before you ran into him I could barely keep anything down.”

George smiles. A full, toothy, happy grin appears on George’s face and he leans a little closer. “We _are_ dating.” 

“I’m in love with you,” Ringo whispers, even though he isn’t sure why he’s whispering. It’s just them, and it’s not like it’s a _secret._ “I thought I just loved and admired you as a best friend, but it goes deeper than that.”

George captures his mouth in a small, chaste kiss; Ringo curls his fingers around the back of George’s neck, tugs him closer, and his entire body burns. It’s pleasant and a bit awkward, because George’s five o’clock shadow scratches against his own and their lips are a little chapped, but George tastes like ice cream and smells like his spicy cologne and a bit like sweat and oh, _God._

When George pulls back he blinks, smiles, and says “that wasn’t weird at _all,”_ and Ringo agrees because it _wasn’t,_ it was _great,_ and he’s already pulling George in for another kiss that makes his heart flutter and his crotch grow tight. George complies, laughter a happy rumble in the back of his throat, and Ringo just _knows._

John was fucking _right,_ and that’s unacceptable. 

~*~

“Told you,” John says smugly, stuffing a chip and a chicken finger into his gaping mouth hole simultaneously and somehow looking handsome and disgusting all at once. “You two are _wild_ for one another and have been for _ages.”_

“Wild in - fucking - deed, Lennon,” George replies, leaning forward with a wicked smile. Ringo swallows a snort. “You wouldn’t _believe_ how much of the apartment we’ve christened already-”

Paul groans loudly before trying to drown himself in his banana milkshake. “I hate this conversation already.”

“You would, you fuckin’ _prude.”_

“I’m not a-” Paul sighs, widens his eyes dramatically, and stabs his sharp elbow in John’s unsuspecting side. John, who’d been eating another chicken finger, nearly chokes and dies. Good riddance. “Tell ‘em! I’m not a _prude.”_

John stares at him. 

“So, it’s true then?” Ringo takes one chip, dips it in George’s chocolate milkshake and pops it into his mouth. “You two are shagging?”

This time, John _does_ choke.

“We’re- we’re _not,”_ Paul hisses, leaning forward and half heartedly patting his dying John on the back. His eyes shoot from Ringo’s milkshake to his meal, and it’s all too obvious he’s contemplating dumping the liquid all over his greasy diner food. “Why would you _think_ that? There’s- _John and I? Shagging?_ That’s _ridiculous,_ Ritchie.”

George pats Paul’s shoulder apologetically, but he doesn’t look apologetic. “You just asked John to prove whether you’re a prude or not. Forgive us for jumping to very possible conclusions.”

_“Not possible at **all** conclusions!”_

“You’re kind of insulting John, there, Paulie,” Ringo points out, “by saying that.”

Paul slaps John’s back harder. “I’m not. We agree. Don’t we, baby?”

The pet name doesn’t go unnoticed. John, red from the exertion of coughing, grows even redder at the raised eyebrows Ringo and George give him, but doesn’t say a thing. He just nods, and Paul, satisfied, kisses his cheek.

“This is insane,” Ringo says, and Paul gives him an unbothered stare before he starts stealing George’s chips. “Dear God. Please do give me an invite to the wedding next year, will you?”

“What _wedding?”_ John chokes out, as if _that’s_ the weird suggestion here, not the fact that Paul is kissing his cheek and calling him _“baby”._ It’s so ridiculous that George needs to hide his laughter in Ringo’s neck, and that Ringo can’t help but sigh with a fond smile. 

Thank God they weren’t _that_ oblivious.

**END.**

**Author's Note:**

> I've got loads of things to do, loads of things to write (including but not limited to a bachelor's thesis, several assignments, and some fic), but I couldn't just let this be. So I did it. I've read the concept hundreds of times in other fandoms (I'm afraid I haven't paid much attention to the recent fics in this fandom, because I'm an arse), and I couldn't resist. The suggestion of Starrison was just too good to pass up. I don't write enough Starrison. It needs more love.  
> So yeah. It's for Remy, because she fuckin' deserves it and because she loves Starrison. So here it is, my dear :)  
> Comments and kudos are appreciated, but if you don't want to, that's fine as well!  
> Hope you all are safe and healthy.  
> xxx  
> [Miffy](https://blobfishmiffy.tumblr.com/)


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